


can you hear me on the other shore (or at least pretend to try)

by purelyhxrry



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Brief Canon Divergence, Confession, Desperation, F/M, Love, Reunion, Winter, pure fluff, touch-starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purelyhxrry/pseuds/purelyhxrry
Summary: Anya was the only one who could ever understand him, even when he didn’t have much to say. Her hand came up to his face again, and his cheek melted into the softness of her palm. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the delicate hollow of her wrist, remembering how many times in his journeys he had only dreamed of being able to do this. Then her hands are on both sides of his face, then his neck, then down his chest. Anya takes off her plaid shawl and wraps it around him tightly, still holding his hand. With the heat of the tartan and her touches, he feels more heat in his body than he has felt in months.





	can you hear me on the other shore (or at least pretend to try)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it’s your friendly neighbourhood sentimentalist back again with another round of feels for the fandom. This fic attempts to explore touch starvation and the interesting relationship dynamic between Dmitry and Anya. I love to write on these two because their dynamic is always at such an interesting balance, regardless of whatever point they’re at in the story. I have chosen to write with ‘Anya’ when I am capturing the purest sense of her (who she really is, who she is when she is with Dmitry) and chosen to use ‘Anastasia’ in the more regal nature (who she has become, who she is because of her heritage). 
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties in the canon of Anastasia, perpetuating a timeline where Dmitry has left Paris without saying goodbye to Anya and has been away for quite some time. I am a sappy, hopeless romantic, so what ensues is as follows, but not limited to: an emotional reunion, a battered Dmitry, a strong Anastasia, and (of course) a happy ending.
> 
> I in no way, shape, or form, am an expert on touch starvation or what psychological past a person must go through to experience it. I have a limited personal knowledge on it and that is what allows me to write this story. I also drew extensively from [this](http://sparklemuffin.tumblr.com/post/126814738464/ok-but-one-of-the-worst-feelings-is-being-touch)Tumblr post- many thanks to it’s author! 
> 
> Title from Eddie Barnam’s “Running”. Enjoy!

It had been a long time since she had last seen Dmitry.

 

Nine months, Anya’s brain recalled, scurrying quickly along the pathway of her mind’s memory to keep up with the ever-quickening pace of her heartbeat. Nine months since that spring day, seeming so long ago now, when her grandmother had told me that Dmitry had left without the reward. Left without saying goodbye. 

 

Left, never to return.

 

She had gone to the train station, waited for hours on the platform, hoping he would change his mind and come back. She had asked her butler everyday for her mail, only to scan through dozens of congratulatory “Hurrah! You’re not dead!” cards from various dignitaries across Europe. She had even stared for hours into the twinkling twilight of summer and early autumn at the new telephone, willing it to ring, wanting to hear the familiar baritone of Dmitry on the other end. 

 

Dmitry, Dmitry, Dmitry. That had been her heartbeat the past few months, through 16 court introductions, one trip around Europe, 83 press conferences, 337 cups of coffee, 137 different dresses and 273 playings of the music box that he had given her- taken with her everywhere she went. She had tried to find him, tried telegraphing Vlad, to no avail. Dmitry had vanished, and Anya had never known where.

 

The last place she expected to find him was in the palace garden.

 

She had been admiring the seed eucalyptus inside the Parisian greenhouse that Mademoiselle Renard was so particular about, wandering in between the aisles of crimson roses and frosted sage. It had been a quiet moment in an otherwise hectic season of addressing Christmas cards to unknown European monarchs, meeting with dukes and duchesses and pretending to like them, when she caught a glimpse of a figure huddling next to the furnace exhaust pipe outdoors. Madmoiselle Renard had been going on and on about the thing as if it were the Messiah itself: a coal-burning furnace stored in the greenhouse basement, to heat the greenhouse to the proper acrid temperature. The exhaust pipe let the coal fumes outside, along with any excess heat. The figure appeared to be using said excess heat to heat himself up in the freezing December temperature.

 

Truthfully, Anya saw herself in the shivering figure: someone without a home and with no real warmth left in the universe, and made her way out the greenhouse to offer the figure some shelter inside. She was expecting a haggard old woman, perhaps a traveling peddler of a once-genteel man. But not this.

 

Not Dmitry.

 

She saw him first; shivering in the cold, hands purple from the cold wind coming from the west. He was huddled as close to the exhaust pipe as possible, breathing in the pungent coal fumes in any way to get as much warmth as he could. His face was sunken; tired, hollow. He looked starving. With a pang, Anya realized he looked a lot like she once had.

 

That was when he looked up, seeing her standing there, and realization dawned on him. He stood up straight, removing his hands from the warmth of the pipe, although it looked as if it pained him to do so. “Anya,” he breathed, and a flood of warmth filled her heart. No one had called her Anya since Dmitry had left.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, the tone being icier than she had wanted. She was just shocked. Perhaps a little angry. Not allowing him to answer, she continued. “I needed you.”

 

She would’ve continued, but she caught Dmitry’s expression then, and it caught her wildly off guard. There was such pain in his face; he stood motionless, as if entranced by the mere vision of her. It was enough to make Anya wonder if she had really changed all that much, if she had indeed morphed into the high-and-mighty Anastasia everyone around her took her to be.

 

She came closer to him; let his eyes trace her face as if a blind man was seeing the face of his lover for the very first time. All of her anger faded away and her joy at seeing him again was the quietest kind; like the moment after the fire sparks and all is quiet, the auburn flames content to burn softly instead of exploding with passion. Overcome by the beauty of it all, she reached up and brushed his cheek with her finger.

 

There was a small noise that came from the back of Dmitry’s throat when she touched his cheek; ever so faintly, like the softest of cashmere sweaters sliding on your skin on a cold autumn day. His eyes closed as he turned his head to inhale her scent - lilacs, and that rich pumpkin smell that had been  _ hers  _ since the day they first met.

 

She watched him, in breathless wonder, as he looked back at her with those deep, brooding eyes. Dmitry’s eyes had always been so confident, so powerful, so surveying. Anya had never seen the yearning that was there in them now: a sort of starvation, a raw, unbridled hunger. For a moment, she hesitated. Her hand, which had been gently caressing his cheek, dropped to her side. Maybe she had this all wrong. Maybe he didn’t want her, didn’t need her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, taking a step back, wringing her hands, embarrassed by the heat blossoming in her cheeks. “I thought you-”

 

Dmitry shook his head, brows furrowing in confusion. He takes a step towards her, then falters, the word falling out of his mouth before he can stop himself - “Please.” It hangs between them, and as soon as it trips beyond his lips, he is sorry. Embarrassment brings colour to his cheeks and he exhales shakily, bowing his head in shame. How many nights had he dreamed of this- of her standing in front of him, pure beauty in effervescent form? Of her soft touch on his body, bringing him comfort? Of finally being warm? Feeling whole? 

 

Yet how could he have any of those things? The mighty Anastasia could never bring herself down to his level; never associate with a common criminal, a homeless vagabond such as he- much less love him in the way he craved so desperately, yearned for even in his sleep. He feels incredible shame at the physical ache in his soul for some kind of affection. Staring at the snow under his feet, Dmitry shakes his head. Anastasia must be scoffing at his hunger for it now, as she stands a few feet away. She must think him a pathetic creature. 

 

Swallowing drily, Dmitry turns to walk away, boots crunching as snow begins to fall in thick flakes around them. “Wait!” Anya calls from behind him, and a hand clutches at his elbow. He inhales sharply at the heat the mere five fingers brings to his entire body. 

 

He doesn’t turn around; doesn’t want to feel the embarrassment that is surely to come from a wanderer such as he begging for affection from a princess like her. He hangs his head as she circles his body so she is once again in front of him - beautiful white gown, with a fur hat and a plaid shawl. Her fingers extend over his, and he shivers involuntarily as he feels the first warmth he’s felt in a very long time.

 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers lowly, softly, but Dmitry doesn’t dare look at her. She’s just saying that. Just saying it to embarrass him, to make him beg. “Every night,” she continues, and he can feel her eyes sweeping over his face, “Looking at the stars, like we did in St. Petersburg… I thought of you.” 

 

He looks at her then, and all of a sudden everything he wants to say is bottled up inside. How can he tell her how he feels? How can he ask her for what he needs? How can he, after he was the one who left her in Paris, leaving to chase dreams into the dust and miss her every second of every goddamn day? The words, the phrases, the apologies- they stay trapped within his throat, and all he can do is look at her as his eyes fill with tears.

 

Thankfully, Anya was the only one who could ever understand him, even when he didn’t have much to say. Her hand came up to his face again, and his cheek melted into the softness of her palm. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the delicate hollow of her wrist, remembering how many times in his journeys he had only dreamed of being able to do this. Then her hands are on both sides of his face, then his neck, then down his chest. Anya takes off her plaid shawl and wraps it around him tightly, still holding his hand. With the heat of the tartan and her touches, he feels more heat in his body than he has felt in months.

 

He forgets the moments that follow. In later years, his brain blips between moments - Anya leading him to the palace, instructing a bath to be drawn immediately, being taken to her private chambers, seeing the music box he gave her on her night-stand, being ushered into a lavish bathroom by a butler. An opulent bathtub with lavender-scented bubbles is waiting for him, yet he stands there shivering after the butler leaves the room - only gazing in awe at the washtub, and looking down at his grimy toes, grimy hands, still gripping Anya’s tartan.

 

Suddenly, she is there again, softly taking the tartan from him and removing his jacket. “Are you alright?” she asks in a low tone as she unbuttons his shirt, and he knows she’s asking him if he wants this. She had been terrified earlier, when she had seen the yearning he had for her. He wants to find a better way to communicate that  _ yes,  _ this is all he ever wanted, but he can’t, so he simply nods. She takes the rest of his garments off, leaving his boxers on. Still standing mute and lifeless, Anya takes him by the hand and steps into the tub, her ivory nightgown pooling like a balloon as she sinks to her knees in the warm water. 

 

Beckoning him forward, Dmitry takes a step into the warm water and exhales shakily as warmth surrounds him entirely. He sinks to his knees in front of her and his eyes flutter shut as exhaustion takes over and the pure pleasure of being warm again fills his entire being. Anya, always one step ahead of him, moves so that he can lay back against her chest, head slipping into the crook of her neck and shoulder, arms circling him. She plants the tenderest of kisses on his forehead. Again, a small noise at the back of his throat - one of pure awe and wonder at the beautiful woman holding him and the earnest of prayers that this isn’t a dream. Then, he is asleep, as Anya caresses his arms gently and reassuringly, humming Birds Of the Night softly into his ear.

 

\---

 

The clock is striking 1 A.M. when Dmitry jolts awake, eyes blinking open with the familiar plummeting sensation that all of this had been a dream. His chest heaving and heart racing, he looks down to his hands - expecting to see them grimy and purple from another cold night spent sleeping under a bridge - and instead finds them clean and warm, no longer muddy or hypothermic. Gasping for air, he turns to see Anya sitting there, just as she had been a few hours ago - beautiful hair in a sideswept braid, iridescent skin almost ethereal in the candlelight, eyes looking at him with concern.

 

“You’re here,” he manages, voice breaking. He doesn’t mean to scare her, but she does look a little scared as she nods and takes one of his hands in hers.

 

“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m here.” Seeing the disbelief in his eyes, she brings his hand to her chest, where he can feel her beating heart. “I’m here and I’m never letting you go again.” 

 

As if to confirm whether or not what she’s saying is true, Dmitry uses his other hand to trace her cheekbone, her lips, the cello-like curve on her neck, her shoulder freckles, down to her wrist bone, to her fingernails. For a moment, he can forget that she is Anastasia. For a moment, sitting here in this washtub with her, all he can think about is Anya -  _ his  _ Anya, the Anya who smells like pumpkin, the Anya who captured his heart when they went dancing, the Anya who fell asleep on his shoulder in the train.

 

But, just like his dreams which always faded away, the realization slowly dawns that his Anya is Anastasia, and Anastasia does not belong with someone like him. He stares at her then, unabashedly, like a man drinking water at the border of a vast desert. 

 

Anya comes closer then, inching towards him so slowly that his heart begins to slow with the pace of her progress. She advances until she is inches away from his face, breath fanning over his cheeks, a soft taste of peppermint and chocolate. It occurs to Dmitry that he is inches away from everything he ever wanted, and his throat closes at the thought.

 

With the softest of touches, Anya cups his cheek once more. “I love you, Dmitry,” she confesses huskily, planting a kiss on the end of his nose. The words are a balm to his soul and more happiness than he has ever felt in his life explodes within his body. “I love you,” she repeats. “I love you,” kissing his cheek, “I love you,” his eyelid, “I love you,” his ear, “I love you,” his mouth.

 

Kissing Anya is the most heavenly thing he had ever known to exist. Her lips are softer than the puffiest cloud, and she tastes like the peppermint and chocolate he had smelled earlier. So much affection and love from her words and her kisses cascades over his body and soul that he hardly knows what to do with himself. He sits, crosslegged, limp with pure joy as she cups his face in her delicate hands and promises him of her affection with her lips. 

 

She pulls back eventually, and he stares into her green eyes with a look of pure adoration and wonder. “I-I don’t deserve this,” he manages, voice breaking once again as he allows himself to be honest with her. “We can’t - you can’t do this. This will never work out.” A tear falls down his cheek and he watches as her eyes pool with tears as well. “You’re Anastasia, I’m Dimitry.”

 

“No,” she rejects, fiercely and without hesitation. “I’m Anya,” she says, viciously almost, as if this is not the first time she has had to voice this opinion. “I’m Anya, and I love you Dmitry, and you  _ do  _ deserve this, you deserve all the warmth and affection and love in the world and, damn it, I want to give it to you!”

 

The words light some furious fire within him and he grabs her hips, pulling her closer to him and kiss her again - harder this time, with more passion, allowing his hands to explore her body in ways he had only dreamed of in the time they’d been apart. This time it’s her who makes a noise at the back of her throat, a mewling sound as she grips his shoulders and trace the outline of his torso. 

 

Although the kiss is heated, there is no rush for something more. Dmitry is content to feel Anya’s fingertips trailing up his ribs, the delicate touch causing him to shiver and his eyes to roll back in complete ecstasy. She giggles and traces his jaw, satisfying his deep and raw thirst for  _ touch,  _ for affection. She runs her fingers through his hair, playing with the curls that form on his forehead from the steaminess of the bathroom. She spells words on his shoulder with her index finger. His yearning hunger has been met. To be known. To be loved.

 

He had only dreamt of this, he told her after, when she took him to her bed and they were lying on the softest of cotton sheets, side by side. He had dreamt of this so many nights in the cold, dreamt of her soothing touch, desperate for a simple brush of fingertips to remind him he was truly alive. His body felt warm now, completely whole, and he was not afraid as he drifted to sleep, clutching Anya’s hips and smelling the sweet scent of pumpkins as the clock chimed and the sound of a distant owl sang them softly to sleep.


End file.
